


it was a pain-filled lovers talk

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: ??? I GUESS, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, SPOILERS BTW, Sad, big big spoilers if u have not read any of the books, i think this is the saddest thing i have ever written, i'm so sorry 2 everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho is the one who kills Newt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was a pain-filled lovers talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coexist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coexist/gifts).



> shoutout 2 izy for bein my counterpart where she writes happy stuff n i write sad stuff

If Minho had told his past self that this would be happening, he wouldn’t believe it. In fact, if he even hears himself—or  _anyone_  for that matter—use ‘Newt’ and ‘kill’ in the same sentence, he’d lose it. If he wasn’t in this situation now, he would laugh.

How can he laugh, though? He hasn’t laughed since they’d read the list of Immunes. Hasn’t laughed since they’d forgotten to read Newt’s name on the list of Immunes. That must be it, right? They’ve only forgotten, haven’t they? He tries—tries  _so hard_ to believe it, himself. Tries to believe that maybe they’d forgotten. Maybe, they were mistaken. Maybe, they just missed his name. Maybe, it was an error in the system. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The more he talks, the more he thinks, the less he believes. Maybe.

But lying down, now, on Newt’s scorched body, with Minho’s limbs pressed to his cuts, bruises, and burns, all of these having been emerged in the span of only a few days, he starts to consider it. Starts to consider the fact that Newt really wasn’t immune. And he’s lost all hope.

Newt positions the barrel of the gun to his throat, his trembling hands guiding Minho’s. Minho’s digits clasp around the gun, his index on the trigger, just as Newt shows him. 

He doesn’t even glance at Newt’s face as he feels the taller boy reach into the back pocket of his trousers.

He doesn’t glance at Newt’s face as he hears the familiar scrunch of the paper he’s read so many times before.

He doesn’t glance at Newt’s face as he hears him talk, with a soft lull in his voice, possibly from the last bits of sanity he’s got left.

He doesn’t glance at Newt’s face.

Then he speaks with a chuckle, with an accent that always had Minho begging to hear his voice. “This seems normal coming from me, innit Minho?” The younger boy sniffs as his tears drip onto Newt’s shirt—or rather, what’s left of it; the scraps and tears on the fabric make it hard to distinguish. 

It’s ironic, Minho thinks, how in this situation, he’s the serious one (for once) and Newt’s the one who finds even just a tinge of dark humor in the situation. Newt clears his throat jokingly, “‘Dearest Minho, Kill me. If you’ve ever truly loved me—” His voice cracks. He gulps slowly. “—If you’ve ever truly loved me, kill me.” Then his voice shifts again to a chirpier tone, “Lots of love, best of luck to ya, hugs an’ kisses, Newt.’”

Minho still wasn’t laughing.

“Why?” He finally manages to open his mouth, his chapped lips cracking as he parts them for the first time in what felt like hours. Newt lifts his head and Minho’s too, without a word. And at last, their eyes meet. 

Newt’s were still the same, foggy, grays—grays that Minho came to love, grays that Minho memorised by heart.

And as for Minho’s, well, Newt never really knew what they were. Never really did know anything about them, except for one thing: every time he looks at Newt, those labyrinthine eyes of his look at him like he’s the only thing in the world. They look at him like there’s still hope left for both of them.

But now there’s only hope for one of them, and it’s not Newt.

When this realisation hits him, he smiles faintly. Shortly after, his tears drench the genuine smile he put on. For Minho to see.

“Please, please, Minho,” Newt pleads one last time, as though his words contained the last breath of sanity he’s got left, mixing with Minho’s own puffs.

Minho doesn’t hear the soft, slow creak of the rusty gun’s trigger. He doesn’t hear the blast of the gun. He doesn’t hear the sound of the bullet cracking through the Flare-infected boy’s skull, and he most certainly doesn’t hear the relieved gasp of the boy beneath him.

What he does, hear, though, is the resonating, haunting way Newt said his name, the way it ended with a breath, a breath that Minho felt against his skin. A breath that left its last trail of goosebumps down his neck. A breath he took, a breath he can never give back, all because he pulled the trigger.


End file.
